On the 4th of July, the weather was beautiful – sunny, breezy and warm. A lot of people had gathered along the Oakland waterfront to hear the blues. They sat at patio tables, danced in front of the stage, lounged with their feet in a gurgling fountain. I sat on a patch of grass, the music and sun warming me straight through to the inside. I watched a group of line dancers, a boy and his puppy, an elderly couple who glowed like teenagers in love.
And I watched the hula-hoops. Spread out over the grass, they were open invitations. People would walk up, step inside one, lift the hoop to their hips and move. Not everyone could do it, but many could, and they fascinated me. There are different techniques, I discovered. Some people hardly move at all, just the barest of motion keeps the hoop spinning around their middles. Some wiggle like belly dancers; others sway so gracefully, it is a sort of poetry performed with a child’s toy.
I was fascinated because I’ve never been able to do it. I have tried. Lots of times. I remember standing, a death grip on the hoop at my hips, praying to whoever it is one prays to for hula hoop prowess. I’d let go, swinging my hips wildly, painfully aware that my motion had absolutely no effect on the hula hoop’s downward trajectory. I never figured out the secret. By twelve or so, I’d accepted my fate: my hips were not hula hoop worthy.
So, imagine my surprise when suddenly I found myself walking up to a hula hoop in the grass, stepping in, lifting it up. My eyes caught the eyes of someone watching. And then someone else. My stomach danced uncomfortably and in the instant before I released my grip on the hoop, I wasn’t sure if I’d let it drop, or try. When I let go, the sun was still warm and gorgeous, the band was still playing, people were dancing and sitting and watching, and I was hula hooping… grinning like a 12-year-old, absolutely and unabashedly full of myself.
